Into the Lens
by ofdemonsandtimelords
Summary: Everyone knows the story of Sam and Dean Winchester, who saved the world and broke the rules and kicked destiny in the balls while they were at it. They don't know that their story is saved on a little disposable camera Sammy bought in Illinois that now resides at the bottom of the lake. A camera that holds the story we know...and a few stories we don't.
1. Chapter 1: The Blurry Picture

**Author's Note: **The idea for this story, a series of twenty-four drabbles formed around the twenty-four pictures in a disposable camera, came to me from a book called _Click _with the same general premise. While the chapters of _Click _were much more detailed, it also had less chapters and wasn't based around anything. After remembering that book, I started to wonder - Sam and Dean have crossed the United States hundreds of times and seen some pretty amazing things. So, I thought, what more would we know about them if we saw the pictures they took? So I started to write a series of twenty-four drabbles that let you see into the lives, and the loss, of Sam and Dean's life. I hope you enjoy.

* * *

This story is saved on a disposable camera. Sammy bought it at a gas station in Iowa. It could take twenty-four pictures total and all it took was six years to fill it up. He bought it the summer after he died with the intention of documenting his brother's last year alive. But that idea was dumb, Dean'd said, and they'd never get the pictures developed and the whole idea was pointless so why put the effort into it? So they forgot about it.

Mostly.

Because the interesting this about sentiment is that it strikes when you least expect it. In the form of your mother's old necklace, or a brochure from your trip to Cancun, or that one report you wrote in sixth grade. And it hits you hard and you think, 'Oh, I'll keep this for one more year. Then I'll get rid of it.' And no matter how worthless it is, you're wrong. You'll never get rid of it, and it'll rot in the back of your closet but you'll never throw it out. And that's how Sam was about the damned camera – he knew it was stupid to keep, but he'd had it for so long that he knew he'd never get rid of it. And he was right.

Mostly.

_The first picture on the camera is a blurry shot of four hands and torso wearing a blue shirt. _

"What's that?" The motel they were staying in in Kentucky was one of the most run down they'd ever seen. There wasn't even a bathroom in the room – there was a public one for everyone at the motel and it was the most disgusting thing either of them had seen in their lives, which was seriously saying something. It was clear that the place was crawling with roaches and rats and other unsightly things that neither of them wanted to see. The carpets were torn and the ceiling were cracked and the walls were thin as paper. The whole place smelled of mold and dust, and the beds were constantly damp for some reason neither of them wanted to think about. The room was cold, a constant chill running through it. To top it all off, they still didn't have enough money left for food, despite the cheap room. They simply hadn't gotten the chance to make some money. As soon as they came through the door, though, Dean dumped his jacket beside the motel room's bed before sitting on it and pulling his shoes off while Sam dumped the contents of his duffle bag onto his bed.

Sam looked over at Dean, a small frown on his face. "It's a camera."

"A camera?" Dean asked, raising an eyebrow as if he had never heard of such a contraption before.

Sam nodded, waving it through the air for emphasis. "I bought a camera."

They'd been working a case in Iowa - two disappearances, both little girls under the age of ten, had occurred within the last month. They found out soon about the towns lore - nothing out of the ordinary except for the kidnapping and murder of two children. The kids were both age seven and were twins. Their mother had recently divorced her husband and so after the death of the children she'd locked herself in her room for months before eventually taking her own life. According to those alive at the time, she'd wandered out of her house bundled in a blanket during November after being inside since June. She then walked down to the railroad station and sat on the tracks humming until she was hit. It'd been the woman's ghost taking the girls, perhaps out of jealousy for the people who got to have their children. When the case had ended, they'd packed their things and then stopped by a gas station to get some food before skipping town. While Dean got the Impala filled up, Sam went into the gas station's shop and bought them some food for the long car ride. They didn't have nearly enough cash for a proper meal. A bag of sunflower seeds, some beef jerky, a couple of beers, a few chocolate bars, a few different types of chips and a camera. If Dean only had a year left, he was going to capture some of it. Though Dean didn't know about the camera, and if he did, he'd probably be pissed, telling Sam that they only had so much money for things they needed.

Now they were in another town, another motel, and Dean didn't look too pleased about it, just as Sam had anticipated. He rolled his eyes, falling back onto the bed. "Why?" he asked, a hint of annoyance in his voice.

"To take pictures with..." Sam replied, matter-of-factly.

Dean rolled his eyes once more. "Yeah, I got that. But why waste money on something you could do with your fricking cell phone?" He reached into one of the bags of chips that they'd still had left over when they'd arrived at the motel early that morning. Still having not raked together enough cash for breakfast, they'd gone through the barbeque potato chips and now the sour cream and onion instead.

"It was five dollars."

"But why?" Dean asked sharply, propping himself up in his elbows. "Why do you even care about taking pictures, I've never seen you touch a camera in your life."

"Maybe because you're dying, Dean, ever considered that?" San said just as harshly. "You've got, what, maybe nine months left? Maybe I want a couple of pictures first."

"God..." whined Dean. "Don't get all sentimental on me." He stood up, walking over to San. "Give me the camera."

"No, Dean, I'll just put it away," Sam argued, reaching for his duffle bag, going to toss the camera in. But Dean was grabbing at the camera before he could put it away. "I won't take any pictures," Sam promised, but at that point Dean had already taken it from him. "Seriously, Dean." Sam reached for the yellow camera, but Dean pulled it quickly out of his brother's reach.

"If your not going to take any pictures, why do you want it?"

Sam shook his head, mildly irritated that Dean did have a point. But then, not responding further, he reached for the camera and was able to grab it before Dean could yank it away. He got another hand on the camera and he tugged at it, but Dean didn't let it budge. Each brother pulled at the camera but neither would release it, and soon they practically began wrestling over it, feet planted but arms straining. Dean would have it, then Sam would have it, the he would adjust his grip and Dean would have it. It was a childish game of tug-of-war and no one was even close to winning. They were both equally matched, Sam perhaps having a slight advantage due to size. And so it went for a good three minutes at least.

Within the first ten seconds, Sam had realized how ridiculous and pointless the fight was, but he kept pulling, fighting, grabbing, purely out of spite. If Dean didn't want him to have the camera, all the more reason to have the camera. But he still knew killing each other over it wasn't worth it. Ah he began to grow tired, a touch of sweat trickling down his forehead and his face beginning to go a little red, he grumbled, "Just let go!"

And Dean smirked and answered, "Fine."

Momentum is a cruel and merciless foe.

As soon as Dean released the camera, Sam was flying. He stumbled several steps backward, back hitting the wall and nearly falling over. The camera fell out of his hands and onto the carpeted motel floor. A dull thud emanated throughout the room and the smile on Dean's lips was sickeningly smug.

"You probably broke it," Sam mumbled in irritation, picking up the camera and holding it to his eye level. Examining it, he found that the viewfinder and the lens were in tact, but..."You wasted a picture. You must've taken it while were fighting over it."

"So?" Dean asked, falling back onto his bed. He was still grinning like an idiot.

"It's a disposable camera, it only has twenty-four pictures."

Dean's eyes fixed on the ceiling. "What the hell's the point of that?"

"I don't know, Dean," he said with something between a sigh and a chuckle.

"Plus, who says I took the picture?"

"Well, I didn't."

"How do you know?"

"'Cause I didn't, that's how."

Dean shook his head. "I didn't, either. I would've noticed, pressing the button."

"So would I!"

"It was you."

"It was not!"

"What does it matter?" Dean asked, sitting up once more and crossing his arms. "If you're not planning on using the damn thing anyway, why does it matter how many more pictures you can take or not? Just throw it away, it's no use to anyone!"

"I'm sorry I bought it," Sam mumbled, throwing up his hands in defeat, to which Dean grinned and lied down once more. Then Sam took another look at the camera, the bright plastic just barely scratched by the fight over it. He shrugged, not quite sure why he'd gotten all that worked up over the device. With that, he tossed it into his duffle bag, and it sank between the side of the bag and his jacket.


	2. Chapter 2: The Picture of the Body

The second picture on the camera was of the bloody, broken body of a young woman.

The drive to Connecticut from Massachusetts was a few hours long. He drove without stopping, eyes fixed on the road, hardly moving the whole time. His lips were plastered into an eternal frown. His grip on the wheel tightened. Passing cars made him flinch. Deer running across the road made him cringe. The black night sky he drove under was no comfort him if there were no stars to light his way. The headlights and street lamps did him hardly any good.

This, he thought, when he dared to think, was how a shattered man's mind functioned. He was like a war veteran - a shell. Too weak too work and too cowardly not to. He dared not think if what his brother would say if he could see him now.

When he arrived at the shabby motel room in Connecticut, it was four o'clock in the morning. He laid himself down on the bed immediately and shut his eyes, but he didn't fall asleep. He supposed he probably couldn't if he tried. He didn't want any nightmares, now, did he? He sighed to himself, opening his eyes and shifting to face the ceiling. He'd taken on such a stoic disposition since Dean's death, working cases and then skipping town in the middle of the night. He just wanted his brother back really. To work with. To laugh out. The job was miserable without him - more miserable, anyhow.

It was nights like this when he thought of Dean the most. The days when the case made so little sense and the workings of his brain made even less. When he tried to add up the data and the background research he came up with nothing but a splitting headache and the need to lie down. He knew he was missing something – he was always missing something – but he could never come up with what. Dean could. If he was here, he would tell himself, Dean would've figured it out hours ago.

The sun rose quickly. What felt like three minutes was actually three hours. The click on the nightstand read seven o'clock and with a sigh, he heaved himself off of the bed, throwing off his shabby street jacket and shirt in favor of a suit. If he was working a case, he'd at least do it right.

The coroner's office was about ten minutes away by walking, but he drove anyway, the minute's ride being driven slowly and smoothly. He pulled into the parking lot, careful as he always was driving Dean's car. He figured one day he'd get used to Dean being away. Maybe enough to not worry about the condition of his car. But it had only been a month. Who could blame the poor kid?

"Agent Rob Wilson, FBI." Sam held up the fake badge, flashing it quickly in front of a coroner's face before replacing it in the inner pocket of his suit.

"Good to meetcha!" he greeted in response, his hearty laugh ringing loudly through the room. He was a short, robust man with a sort of accent Sam couldn't quite figure out - probably something from New York - and he had a lab coat hung loosely over his shoulder. "I'm Tom Farris."

Sam held out his hand, a warm but tight-lipped smile appearing on his own face. Tom took Sam's hand in both of his and shook it hard, a grand grin on his own lips.

"Now," Sam said, his smile fading once Tom had removed his hands from Sam's."Tell me a little about the victim."

Tom frowned. "She was twenty-six years old, single, never married, never had any kids. She worked at the dentist's office off of Main Street. She was an only child, and she lives across the street from her parents, now. Everyone adored her."

"Can you tell me a bit about them? Her parents?"

The old man's frown seem to deepen at the question. "Well, I knew them well. We went to school together, even though their a few years older than me; they're almost seventy...they were very old when she was adopted."

"She's adopted?" His voice rose in curiosity. He figured this was the point Dean would've nudged him not-so-discreetly in the side with his elbow, would've glanced at him before looking thoughtfully back at the coroner. But – right – Dean wasn't there to do anything, so he just kept on staring somewhere past the old man, waiting for his reply.

"When she was just a few months old. They were in their forties when they finally adopted her. I was right there at her first birthday party; they were thrilled to have a little girl!" He offered quick smile before once more frowning.

"May I see the body?" Sam requested, pulling out his cell phone. As the woman's body was pulled out, he held down the on button, but the screen remained black. Again, he tried to turn the device on, to no avail. He'd need a picture of the body to look at - it was mangled rather peculiarly, all gory and bloody and bruised, and he'd need a good picture later.

"They're saying it's an animal attack," Tom said, giving the body a once-over. "But I'm not so sure. You see, these cuts don't look like claws – they're too precise. It's not like anything I've seen…"

Tom's voice seemed to fade out into the back of Sam's head, as he reached around in his bag. He wasn't entirely sure what he was looking for, but eventually, his fingers curled around cold, hard, scratched plastic. He pulled the camera out, and he nearly dropped it when he saw it. He hadn't even remembered he had it and immediately his thoughts raced back to the damp motel room, the arguing, the breathless fighting before falling on the beds and laughing at Letterman for an hour later that night. He remembered the case and ordering Chinese food for breakfast the next morning. He remembered the city and the gas stations and the restaurants. He remembered falling asleep before Dean that night. He wondered if Dean had ever gone to sleep.

There were twenty-three pictures left. He lifted the camera and snapped one of the body. Twenty-two.

"Me too," he replied. He might have cut Mr. Farris off in the middle of his sentence. He wasn't quite sure whether or not he'd still been speaking. "Well, Tom, I'll have to be going now. Thank you for your time."

Tom nodded at him, a fond smile on the old man's lips before Sam turned to leave.

The car ride back to the motel room felt incredibly long, and the seconds felt like hours. The disposable camera rattled in his pocket and he gripped the wheel tightly. His jaw was clenched and his eyelids felt heavy.

The road seemed bumpy. He felt tired and he didn't know why. It was so early in the day and he'd gotten plenty of sleep the previous night. He hadn't drunk more than one beer. He had to stay awake. He had research to do, and he needed to get that picture developed, and he needed to solve the damned case so he could move onto another one.

When he got back to the motel room, he stood with his back to the door for a long time - so long it felt like an hour. Then, he pulled the camera out of his pocket and stared at it for just as long. He really ought to work...but he knew trying to motivate himself was futile. He just needed thirty minute's rest. He tossed the camera onto one of the beds and lied down on the other. Then he closed his eyes and curled slightly into himself without pulling the covers over his body. After all, it would just be a half-hour long nap, he told himself.

Instead, he slept 'till the next morning. He threw the camera hastily into the duffle bag, yelling at himself for not working enough the previous day. He researched and studied without a single break for the rest of the day, sipping down coffee rapidly, the pot in the corner of the room never empty. He kept at it until he came to the conclusion that the death had been the result of a curse on the girl's biological family. It was with a heavy sigh that he climbed into the Impala - the rest of the family had already been killed. There was no one left to save.

He hated those cases, those cases where everyone had died too soon. It made him feel helpless. What was he, he often asked himself after such cases, if he couldn't save even one life?

He drove 'till he found a wood with a nice clearing. He sat on the hood of the car and stared at the sky. You could see the stars that night. He fell asleep on top of the car.

The photo never got developed.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note:** So sorry this took so long to get up! It needed a lot of editing, not to mention it was not the most enjoyable thing to write, so I kept putting it off. I hope it's more fun to read than it was to right! That being said, I hope you like it!

The third picture on the camera was of Sam with blood on his mouth.

Ruby was there that night, but, then again, when wasn't Ruby there? And Sam didn't mind it. It would be a lie to say he didn't like this new body - the coma victim, Jane-something. He liked the girl's chocolate hair and brown eyes and he liked her voice, too. It was attractive, it was sexy, and best of all, it was kosher. No one got hurt from her use of the body. No one had to. The "Jane" lady whose body it used to be was dead. Her soul was gone. Now, it was one-hundred percent Ruby.

There were times he was very thankful of this - when he was sucking the crimson blood out of her veins, for instance, or when he spent the night fucking her for as long as his own body would hold out. Those nights, he was grateful that there wasn't some other woman in there. At least, he didn't think there was. In all honesty, the mechanics of possession were unclear to him. All of his knowledge on the topic had come from what the demon had told him – that the meat suit was empty, that no one was getting hurt, that everything they did was solely the two of them, not some poor unfortunate soul trapped in its own head. And he trusted and believed her, figuring if she had a reason to lie to him, he would have figured it out by now.

This night, Sam was anxious, and he was stressed. The case he was dealing with made no sense. The clues didn't add up to anything he'd ever heard of, and the people dying didn't share any connections he could see. And so, as soon as Ruby was knocking at the door, he had his arms wrapped around her, kissing her hungrily. And when he pulled back for breath, the expression on her face was almost shocked. Not that she'd never done the same to him, but it was still rather out of character. "Sam?" she asked cautiously, standing her ground in the doorway but still looking as though she would have preferred to take several steps away from the hunter.

Sam put on a nonchalant facade, wearing an expression that almost mirrored her own confusion. "What?"

"Sam, are you feeling alright?" she asked. She met his eyes, and hers glinted with concern. Not true concern, though, Sam could tell as he tore his gaze away from her eyes. It was not hard to tell that Ruby didn't care all that much about Sam's well being, at least not where it came to his mental health. But he cared for her, that much he would admit, if only to himself.

So he took a deep breath. He calmed himself down. He met her eyes and he spoke. "I'm fine," he answered with a look of false confidence. "Why?"

"Are you sure?" Ruby took a few small steps forward and placed her hand on Sam's cheek. Her touch was gentle but her skin was ice cold, where his was pink and warm. "Because if you're not, maybe tonight we shouldn't."

Sam's expression changed to a deep frown and he grabbed her wrist, pulling her and away from him. "You've never said that before."

"I'm not saying anything," she sighed exasperatedly, shoulders slumping as her eyes rolled slightly. "I'm just trying to say that maybe you ought to think a little bit before you go crazy."

Sam looked at her for a long moment before moving slowly towards her. Then, he put his hands gently on her hips and kissed her slowly. Even if he wasn't alright, he could act he was. And when he pulled away, he offered a small smile that said exactly that. "I'm too tired to think today, alright?" he said. And she returned the smile, chuckling in a way that told him she was, too. But, Sam knew, Ruby never quite thought, not like he did, anyway. She never thought about consequences, and she never thought about results, and she never thought to plan ahead. She certainly never thought about emotions or implications or anything of the sort. So, the whole time, she hadn't been talking about the sex, or the kissing or how he felt – she was simply worried about the events of the following morning.

"C'mon," he said after a moment, and with a reluctant smile, she followed him to the bed.

They fucked that night. There was no care, no gentleness, no illusions of love. Just hot, rough, fast sex. That was the best way, because no one had to fake anything, and there was no regret; not for the demon, anyway. Sam had a horrible feeling in his stomach every night with her, though, that simply would not relent, a horrible feeling that perhaps he did love her, and what then? What happened to men who fell in love with demons? He never dared to wonder. When they finished, Ruby fell asleep curled up against him. He wanted to laugh at how human she looked. He didn't get any sleep himself that night.

The next morning was the same as any other. A few words were exchanged as they brewed their coffee and cooked a couple of eggs. Ruby ate the crude breakfast and her eyes burnt Sam from behind the morning paper he read. Neither said a thing as he skimmed through the day's headlines, ignoring the sports, comics and weather. After he finished reading, his eggs left uneaten and his coffee cup still full, Ruby let him digest for a couple of minutes before speaking.

"You ready?" she asked, crossing and uncrossing her legs. She cautiously let her eyes meet Sam's.

"For what?" he answered casually, frowning in faux confusion. Truthfully, he knew just what the demon was talking about. He just wasn't too crazy about the idea.

Ruby returned the frown. "You know damn well for what," she responded. "We didn't do it last night, and if you want to gank some demons..."

Sam sighed. "I'm too tired..." he tried to explain, but it was evident from the look on Ruby's face that she wasn't taking no for an answer.

When she could tell that Sam had given up fighting, evident from the way his whole body slumped sleepily into his chair, she removed the knife from her pocket, digging it into her wrist. She then held it out to Sam, red blood oozing down her skin. Sam couldn't help but smile a little. He knew he ought to despise the stuff, but what could he say? It was a drug, like any other. And whether is was heroin, cocaine, alcohol or pot, any junkie would be pleased to get his fix so painlessly and free.

He took her arm in both his hands, licking up the blood before putting his mouth over the cut and sucking. The blood tasted like warm metal on his tongue, and he drank it hungrily like it was his only sustenance in days. And Ruby, as always, watched him with a smug little smirk on her lips, like a child who had just pulled off some sort of scheme. Every now and again she would flinch, when Sam's teeth sank into her skin a little too hard. He used to ask if she was alright whenever that happened, but she had always responded, "I'm fine. Keep drinking." So he'd stopped asking.

When he finished, he pulled back to take heavy breaths. His mouth was covered in crimson and his eyes were wide, and for a moment, he wasn't Sam, and it was in this moment that Ruby saw the camera. Sam would never notice, but it was in this moment that she snapped a picture of him looking like a monster, a purely malicious smile on her lips, and for no reason other than to savor what she had made of the boy. It wasn't until there was someone knocking at the door that they snapped back out of their trances.

"I'll get it," Ruby said with a nod. "You go get cleaned up."

Sam returned the nod as Ruby headed to the door. She turned her arm, hiding the gash in her wrist, before answering the door as nonchalantly as possible. After all, no one worth worrying about would just be knocking at the door. But nothing, ever, could have prepared her for who was on the other side.

After all, Dean Winchester was dead.


End file.
